Look at you, pressing your phone flat against the sky with fifty thousand other arms, all of you filming the same three minutes you will never once rewatch.
You are so worried about the ground being sticky. About whether your friends can find you. About the line for water and the way your feet already hurt at four in the afternoon with the good set hours away.
I want to tell you something, but you can't hear me over the bass anyway, so I'll just say it here. That song they're about to play, the one that comes on and makes the whole field turn into one animal shrugging its shoulders in the light. You will be forty-something in a kitchen when it comes on again, chopping something, half-listening.
And your body will remember this exact patch of trampled grass before your mind does. You'll have to stop for a second.
The person next to you, the one bumping your shoulder, singing every word wrong and grinning. Learn their face. I have looked for it since.
Don't worry about the phone. Put it away when it feels right, and if it never feels right, that's fine too, you tried. The magic wasn't in the recording. It was in your throat being raw the next morning from yelling for people who couldn't hear you love them.
You are tired and thirsty and your feet hurt and you are exactly where you are. That's the whole thing. That was always the whole thing.
Go get the overpriced water. Hydrate, you idiot.
And when the lights drop, don't check the time.